


With A Hopeful Smile

by Kastaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 15:30:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kastaka/pseuds/Kastaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>First posted at fandom_stocking for akashasheiress: http://fandom-stocking.dreamwidth.org/360302.html</p>
    </blockquote>





	With A Hopeful Smile

**Author's Note:**

> First posted at fandom_stocking for akashasheiress: http://fandom-stocking.dreamwidth.org/360302.html

"Asteria."

He breathes her name like he's discovering it for the first time.

She pauses, uncertain, just inside the bedroom. Her long train has been unclipped, discarded, taken away by her sister - Daphne Nott, the Maid of Honour, who had looked her in the eyes and squeezed her shoulder and told her it would all be okay.

He closes the door gently behind them, and begins to carefully unlace her dress.

She stands there, eyes open, staring at the room - but not really taking it in - concentrating instead on the insistent tugging, the working of his fingers. Methodical, efficient, but as calm and gentle as she might have hoped for; no trace of impatience or violence.

Remembering Daphne's wistful commentary - "The Malfoys are good to their own. You're a lucky woman, Terri."

"Asteria," he repeats, halfway down the dress; running the back of his finger gently down the increasing triangle of exposed back beneath it. She shivers, involuntarily, and wonders if he notices any blemish, any imperfection there. They had been over everything with concealer, attempting to ensure that the bride of Draco Malfoy would be perfect, but it had been a long, warm day and she had no idea how well it would hold up.

"Asteria," he says again, savouring it like a fine wine, as he gently peels the sleeves from her arms, and briefly nuzzles her neck in passing. And it seems, a little, like he wants to say more, but he doesn't have the words.

He bends down and picks up the hoop at the base of the dress; there is a moment where she is confused, and then she lifts her arms, to let him lift the skirt up and over her head. He carries the outer layer of the dress solemnly over to a chair, over which he deposits it, hanging the shoulders carefully across its back.

Then he looks up at her, with a hopeful smile.

She almost says, "Sir?", like some kind of obedient servant. But she does not want to set that tone between them, so she turns it into an open-mouthed slight smile of shy anticipation.

She begins to reach up to undo her own undergarments, but he has crossed the room in an instant, his hands gently but firmly taking over from hers. He obviously doesn't know how the clasp works, but he covers it up by stroking her back as he examines it, and finally discovers how to unhitch the hooks that keep her underwear together.

The bra is heavily padded; she wonders for a moment whether he is disappointed, but the delicate wonder with which he cups her small breasts in his hands, peering over her shoulder to take the sight of them in, reassures her.

After standing like that for a long moment, he reluctantly relinquishes his grasp and looks downwards once again. The underskirt is a repeat performance from the over-dress; he can't quite get it off in one flourish, has to pause and re-gather the stiff netting while she is momentarily helpless, adrift in a sea of hazy white with her hands in the air.

But he does not seem to have done it on purpose, and soon the skirt is in a neat pile on the floor - always very neat, always taking a moment to put things in their right place, she notices.

Then he is in front of her, still as fully clothed as he entered the bedroom, his nose almost touching hers; but now he is the one who looks somewhat unsure of how to proceed.

So it is her turn to take charge. She skillfully disassembles his bow tie and lays it carefully on the chair, over her dress; attends to the top button of his collar, her fingers fumbling for purchase, feeling the warmth of his pale neck beside it. His jacket and waistcoat have thankfully already been dispensed with, and finally she manages to grasp the button and feed it through the well-starched hole. As it pops open, she can tell she has chipped her fingernail polish on it, and tries to cover up the slight wince at her misstep.

"Asteria," he repeats, lifting a hand to run through her hair, which was gradually falling out of the elaborate arrangement which had been held up by the long-forgotten veil. And he smiles, reassuringly, and she feels that any mistake has been forgiven.

So she continues down his shirt, undoing the buttons, trying not to think too much about what lay underneath. She tells herself that she will learn to love him, that she is fortunate, that many girls do so much worse on their wedding night.

Finally she is at the base of the shirt, and not wanting to give too much attention to what lies there, she swiftly straightens and pushes the shirt back over his shoulders, down his arms. Touching his skin directly at last.

It is a strange, and... not entirely disagreeable sensation. His skin is soft, mostly; even over the scars, it runs smooth under her fingers.

She looks up at him, and pauses for a moment. She knows that she should... should undo his trousers, next. But she is strangely and irrationally afraid.

He looks at her with a fleeting expression of concern, and reaches down himself, to undo that button and pull the zip with long practice, letting them fall to the ground.

"Asteria," he says, and his voice is more serious, now; more commanding, almost, but she thinks she might be imagining that. "Are you..." he manages to add, and he places his hands on the sides of her shoulders, looking into her eyes.

She tries to hold his gaze, but looks down, blushing; a tactical error, as she can now see clearly through his boxers how excited he is.

"I..." she contributes, pitifully. Pull yourself together, she thinks. Are you not a Greengrass? Are you not now a Malfoy? Would you bring shame to either, to both of your families like this?

"It's okay," he says, releasing her. He moves away slightly; sits on the bed, begins to remove his shoes and socks. "It's okay to be nervous. Is this," he says, pausing slightly to work out how to phrase it, "is this actually your first time? You can tell me now - I'm your husband, come what may."

"Not quite," she admits, wrapping her arms around herself, and remembering that night; they were camping out, had made the tent roof clear open to the stars, when Theodore had crept into her compartment and they had made the kind of quiet, clumsy, teenage love that you do in those kind of circumstances. It had hurt a bit and it had not been that much fun, but the thrill of transgression was most of it, and it seemed to make him happy.

"I won't ask," replies Draco, working on the other shoe. "But I'll try to do better than they did, at least. And you should tell me... you should say things, you should speak."

"I'll," and she lets herself look at him, sitting there all hopeful and awkward and wanting to prove himself, and a genuine smile spreads across her face. "Oh, come on, then."

And as he attempts to stand, she moves over to him, and goes to knock him backwards onto the bed and kiss him; but his reflexes are well-trained, and he blocks her 'attack', turning them both over so that it is him that is pinning her.

She is still smiling, so he leans down for his kiss.


End file.
